A perfect angel. (Their blunt machine.)

My parents raised me to be the perfect child.
They taught me to not have an opinion, but always be the person in the middle, the one who never takes a side.
(People now call me indecisive, because I don't know how to decide for myself.)
They taught me to never scream or yell or even cry too loud as a little girl, and now that I want too, I can't.
(The first time I ever screamed was when I worked at a haunted house last year. It felt so good.)
They taught me that I didn't need friends to be happy, that if someone really wanted to be friends, they would come to me.
(I spent all of sixth grade alone because of that.)
They taught me to never be honest, even with the people I loved, because honesty could hurt someone in some way.
(Now lying is all I know.)
They taught me that grades were everything, came before everything, and told them exactly how smart I was.
(I now think I'm stupid after a single failed paper. They don't correct me.)
They taught me to not listen to stereotypes, the hateful words of others, but they never told me that they weren't true.
(They shrug and call me blond after a bad grade. They call me a pudgy and acne ridden teenager, 'like all teenagers.')
They taught me to be insecure with comments and little actions that they looked past. They never thought too hard about what they were seeing.
(They didn't question scars. They didn't question that I wasn't hungry. They would never assume such a thing of their perfect angel.)
They taught me that their actions were always okay, but mine were things to be scrutinized always and for everything.
(They forgot me at school event, and didn't pick me up for two hours. I was grounded for crying in the car on the way home.)
They taught me to be grey, to blend in with the background, to never speak too loud or too long, to not be remembered, and to not be heard.
(People ask me why I'm so quiet. They step on me accidentally because they forget I was there. They don't notice my absence or presence.)
I want to be heard. I want to be loud and have a choice and a voice and be remembered by the people I meet and be able to look someone in the eye on my birthday.
(They are still telling me that those ideas are false.)

They raised me to be the perfect little angel.
(Their blunt little machine.)

I want to be bright, colorful, confident.
(I don't know how.)